


The Backwards Alphabet

by orphan_account



Category: Sherlock BBC
Genre: M/M, Prequel, Recreational Drug Use, Teen!fic, University
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-03-20
Updated: 2011-03-19
Packaged: 2017-10-19 15:15:41
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 12,937
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/202259
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>An in-depth account of one interesting night in the life of John Watson, a second-year medical student at St Bart's. Squint and it's a prequel.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

_**The Backwards Alphabet [1/2]**_  
 **Title** : The Backwards Alphabet  
 **Pairing** : Sherlock/John, John/Sarah that doesn't really go anywhere  
 **Rating** : NC-17, just to be safe  
 **Word Count** : ~12,700  
 **Summary** : Teen!AU. Yes, you read that right. An in-depth account of one interesting night in the life of John Watson, a second-year medical student at St Bart's. Squint and it's a prequel.  
 **Warnings** : Language, smoking of illegal substances, sexual scenes, it's a teen!AU.  
 **Beta** : The marvellous [](http://ebonystar.livejournal.com/profile)[**ebonystar**](http://ebonystar.livejournal.com/) , to whom I owe a trip to see Frankenstein.  
 **Disclaimer** : I'm not Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, Ye Holy Godtiss or anyone remotely cool :( Also, all views held within are those of the characters and not of the author. I'm very chill when it comes to drugs.  
 **A/N** : So I'm pretty sure this is sacrilegious to this fandom or whatever, but please don't let that put you off. I've spent a long time on this making this as great as possible, so... well anyway, it's up to you, but as teen!AUs go, this one is sort of hardcore. Ahahaha!

John Watson prods at his face in the hall mirror and grimaces. He’s got a spot coming up below his right nostril; he can feel its dull ache every time he forms an ‘o’ or scratches the faint fuzz on his lip. Spots near the nose are always the worst, and ten minutes before your date is due to knock on your door really _isn’t_ the best time to discover a mini volcano sprouting below your nostril. He just knows it’s going to be hovering there all night like an uninvited plus one, gleefully chipping away at his self confidence. _Should wash your face more, John!_ Well, he already does, and it’s too late to pen an angry email to Clearasil now when Sarah’s just about to clip-clop up the drive, all smiles and tendrils of hair falling loose from the bun. Perhaps she’ll have put Chinese sticks in it. She did that once for a party; John stood across the room for the whole two hours thinking up ways to introduce himself. He never did.

But, somehow, like an unruly game of Chinese Whispers, word got to Sarah that he had… hence John standing at his mirror finding flaws in his complexion. He’s wearing his best cord jacket with jeans and a beige shirt – he’d gone with a tie at first, but, after Phil had burst out laughing at the sight of him, the offending garment had duly been chucked back into his wardrobe – and doesn’t even know how he’s going to begin speaking to Sarah. He probably knows more about her than she does about him, for starters, and that’s verging on creepy. It’s not really seen as socially acceptable to start with: “So, I hear you applied for the course I’m doing but didn’t get the grades! How’s English Literature at Goldsmiths suiting you?” Or at least so he hears.

He’s not socially awkward, John. Dating hasn’t been a problem, mainly because in his years pre-epiphany he didn’t really try. If he had _wanted_ to charm a lady’s dress off her body, John’s sure he could have at least made a successful attempt of it, but the desire just wasn’t there. He’d been facing some awkward questions about asexuality before he saw Sarah, and became absolutely… obsessed, besotted, any other pathetic adjectives to describe his situation. That’s why the whole thing seems so mental, really; he’s actually managed to bag a date with the girl of his dreams, to be all flowery and poetic, so what the hell is he supposed to do now? He’s not even sure if she’s agreed to go out with him out of pity, or because he’s a trainee doctor with army aspirations (apparently the ladies go for that), or because she actually fancies him. An answer to that would change the whole dynamic of the night, and even then he’s not quite sure if he wants one.

It’s all. So. Confusing.

Too late to lament now: there’s the door. John cups his hands over his mouth, exhales, realises that never works, curses, calculates the time it’d take for him to leg it upstairs to the bathroom, curses again, then finally turns and paces up to the door to answer it. Clearing his throat, he twists the bud of the lock and wrenches the door open with a flourish. Unfortunately he almost pulls the safety catch off with it.

 _Phil, you complete and utter twat. You twat. I just. I hate you right now._

He’d forgotten that he lives with Phillip Hargreaves, possibly the most paranoid person in the entire universe. He had also forgotten Phil’s annoying habit of single-, double- and triple-locking every door and window he can reach. John doesn’t quite know why he does it; he’s unsure just who the guy reckons is after him. For God’s sake, Phil isn’t even the house. How did he even…?

John slams the door again, then, working the safety catch free, repeats the flourishing moment he’d tried to attempt earlier. This time it’s successful and reveals the beaming form of Sarah, seemingly unperturbed by the fact her date just almost broke his front door trying to impress her.

“Hey!” She begins, cheerily enough. Her hair isn’t in a bun but what she’s got going is just as nice, perhaps nicer, in a way, for she seems to have put some product in it; it’s more voluminous than usual. And shiny. He’s almost transfixed.

“…Hey.” John’s voice sounds almost apologetic. He coughs, once, and then continues his speech down half an octave, “How’re you doing?”

“I’m good, yeah. Good. You?”

John coughs again. Christ, he needs a drink. “Yeah. Good. I’m good, thanks. So do you…” Cough. “Do you want to come in? Or… I mean, I was thinking we’d probably go out, so we could go out now, or, you know, if you don’t want to just yet we can…” Cough. “I mean… you don’t have to, I was just…”

 _Shut up, John, shut up. She’s beautiful, so shut up._

“Where were you thinking of going?” Sarah replies, looking rather like she’s trying to suppress giggles. Which is just great.

“Oh, just the SU.”

Her face falls slightly, “Oh, right. Okay.”

“I’m sorry, I know that’s not very exciting, I just-”

“No, John, it’s fine! The SU is fine. It’s wonderful. Shall we go?”

So they go. The half silence is half bearable; John’s actually okay at small talk when it comes to the crunch – they speak about lectures, dull professors, recent London University events that they both attended – and largely manages to avoid their elephant plus one. _Largely_ , because Sarah asks, and he tells her, and there’s silence. He couldn’t have prevented it. He wishes that he had.

The student union isn’t far away, so thankfully the unease isn’t given time to manifest. John thinks they’re getting on fairly well by the time they reach the metallic doors and push their way inside. They’re not hit by any wall of noise; wave of heat; smell of perspiration or the heavy breaths of the clubbers inside: this is the SU, a club with the dial turned down. The sort of club devised by the parents committee where they know their child will be safe, there won’t be any drugs, no one’s going to get hurt, and no one’s going to have a great time. John knows he’s made a fatal error in choosing their destination but, really, his choices are somewhat limited. John Watson falls into the category of med students who choose study over socialising, their career over clubbing. He’s not a loser, but he knows he has a future, and he’s not exactly familiar with the local nightlife. Hence the student union. Hence the black mark already against this date.

Well, John’s going to make her see that, despite his lack of streetwise…ness, he knows how to have a good time. He’s a good guy. He’s going to buy her a drink.

“Drink?” He offers as they sidle up to the wall and Sarah rests her shoulder against the face of a rapper who’s probably famous, as he’s playing there next month. Or perhaps not. A hip-hop track John doesn’t know is blasting from the speaker above them; it drowns out her answer so she has to repeat it three times, her mouth getting nearer to his ear each time.

“JD and Coke!”

Third time it loses the politeness. John pretends that he doesn’t care, smiles, and heads to the bar. Sarah’s order is placed along with a request for a large beer and for some sort of omnipotent god to come down and zap Sarah with a lightning bolt of staggering realisation. Or for a large, deep hole, preferably to the centre of the earth, to appear in the floor right where John is standing.

He knows he’s exaggerating, really. He doesn’t normally exaggerate. John Watson is a realist, he tells it like it is, he swallows the facts and regurgitates them in the exact state they were before being processed. He doesn’t twist, or spin, or slant. He’s only nineteen yet feels middle-aged already, how is that? Where did those other twenty years come from?

Suddenly there are drinks being pushed against the fists he’s got resting on the bar, and he’s supposed to be producing money. Suddenly there’s a faff, a sliver of ice striking through his chest as the doubt processes. Did he bring his wallet? Yes, of course he did; he needed his ID for the doors. But then where the fuck… oh, right, the other pocket. Eventually he exchanges alcohol for money and all is calm again. There’s a cough from the man beside him, leaning against the bar with his face almost in his beverage. John turns his head, deems him uninteresting and unlikely to provoke, then heads back to Sarah with a glass in each hand. John doesn’t observe the man’s head as it snaps back up again, like his previous motion is being rewound, and John doesn’t notice the slow, sweeping look he takes around the bar, the pause, the smirk.

-

 _Straight. Straight. Straight. Gay. Straight. Bisexual. Straight. Straight. Gay. Questioning… interesting._

-

The night, in general, is progressing well when it reaches half eleven. Sarah’s a bit looser; John’s still tense but is getting there. They smile, they laugh, they swap stories and it’s _actually going well_ ; John can’t believe his luck. After three return trips to the bar and the beginnings of a city of empty glasses on the table next to them, Sarah offers to shout John a couple. At first, ever the gentleman, he declines. She insists and he remains defiant. Then there’s a hand on his arm and a lean in towards him and John realises he could never refuse her anything. He lets her go and watches the gentle swing of her slender hips as she crosses the floor; he’s only male, after all.

After a minute of staring over at her, watching her fingers drum on the sticky bar top, her front teeth sinking in to her bottom lip – she does that when she’s unsure, he’s noticed – John eventually loses concentration and diverts his gaze to the sights and sounds blaring and flaring around him. He memorises the combination of the lights being projected onto the dance floor, _pink, green, blue_ , and tries to pick out people he recognises in the crowd. He doesn’t know anyone; that’s immediately apparent. Feeling slightly exposed, he turns his eyes back to Sarah at the bar, seeking reassurance. He doesn’t get it. There’s Sarah, yes, she’s standing at the bar still, but there aren’t any drinks in her hands or even next to her and she’s talking to someone else and she’s… she’s leaning in towards them.

The hole in the floor suddenly makes an appearance, and John’s insides disappear into it.

This guy, he notices as he presses forwards through the crowd, is the coughing guy from before. He’s sure of it. The guy who had stood slumped next to him showing all the classic signs of alcoholism, who John thought would never cause any trouble, who was just a lowlife drunkard, is talking to his date. The closer he gets the more he can make out; the man’s got dark, curly hair, perhaps black or dark brown, he can’t tell in the light. The coat he’d been cloaked in before has been shed and it’s draped over the bar in front of him but no one seems to have told him to move it. Closer still, and the man looks like an alien. What the hell is wrong with his face? It’s all planes and angles and cheekbones and his eyes are cat’s eyes, they’re weird, it’s wrong, the guy’s not human. John tells himself that it’s just a misunderstanding and he’s overreacting and he’s just paranoid; he tells himself this until Sarah reaches out and touches the alien man on his forearm – it’s then that John realises that the guy is wearing a suit. A _suit_. An actual tailored suit. Who the hell does he think he is? – and he approaches them and he’s damn fucking certain that there’s something going on.

“Is he bothering you?” John interjects, sliding between bodies to reach Sarah and the man. Upon his words Sarah jumps back as if shocked; alien man turns to John and suddenly gains ten inches. Christ, he’s tall.

 _Don’t feel intimidated, John. Just because he’s over six foot doesn’t make him better than you._

Sarah almost simpers, her right hand flying to her mouth and her shoulders ascending as she gazes up at the intruder. John’s head flips from Sarah to the stranger, there and back again like he’s at Wimbledon observing a particularly successful rally.

“No, not at all.” Is Sarah’s eventual response. John extends his hand to touch her on the arm, his eyes still on the stranger. As are hers. Fuck.

“You know what,” John turns back to her, “forget the drinks. I’ll pay for them, my shout this time. Okay? You just wait over there, and I’ll be over in a second. Gin and tonic, right? I’ll be over in just a second.” His hand gestures to a point far, _far_ over across the room, and Sarah eventually acquiesces, shooting one of them a dangerous glance. John’s not quite sure who the recipient is supposed to be; he doesn’t particularly want to follow her eye-line in fear of it travelling far over his head.

Right, now this mystery man deserves his time. And his tongue.

“It was a JD and Coke, actually.” Mystery Man drawls before John’s nerves have even sent the signal to begin turning on his heel and bollocking the guy. In his shock, John spins too fast and almost falls over; Mystery Man watches him teeter with vague amusement.

“What?”

“Her drink. Assuming she wants a repeat of the same, getting her a gin and tonic probably isn’t the best bet, seeing as she’s been drinking JD and Cokes since you arrived.”

John decides not to voice the “what the fuck” he’s thinking. Instead, out of consideration and politeness, goes with a more socially acceptable alternative to confront a stranger with.

“Who do you think you are? Were you trying to hit on my date?”

Well, _slightly_ more socially acceptable. Acceptable when dealing with dickheads.

Said dickhead pulls a face like he’s just smelled something particularly foul, stares over John’s shoulder for a second with a unfathomable glint in his eye (or perhaps that’s just the disco lights), then pulls his gaze back to the shorter man’s eyes again.

“I can assure you that unless she is in possession of a penis – of which you will be relieved to know I am fairly certain she is not – I am not the slightest bit interested in your _date_. It’d do both of you good for you to inform her of that, so she would stop… oh. It seems that won’t be necessary.”

“What?” John spins in the direction of Mystery Man’s gaze over his head, unsure what to expect. He can’t see Sarah, though, and decides this is probably a good thing. The further away she is from them the better; he doesn’t want her to see how he measures up next to Mystery Man. It’s not pretty. He spins back.

Said man winces, but it seems insincere somehow. John doesn’t find this at all surprising. “Hmmm. Seems that she hung around to eavesdrop and overheard our conversation, so now she’s making her way to the exit.” Suddenly the man’s gaze drops to John’s eyes and he smiles without teeth, crinkling his nose. It’s more of a grimace manipulated into something that sort of resembles a smile, with all the sincerity of his previous facial expression, “Sorry.”

God, this is a guy John needs to keep in contact with. He’s really proving to be a catch.

Unfortunately John’s net doesn’t seem to be sturdy enough to hold such a fabulous creature, as the man stalks off with a snatch of his coat from the bar and flash of his heels. John finds himself unsure whether to punch the air or punch himself. He settles on the self-gratifying option and struggles to find the positives in the situation before a realisation judders through him like electricity. Mystery Man is heading towards the same exit Sarah just left from.

 _Oh, fuck no._

“Wai- wait!” John calls out before properly considering the fact that he’s a) in a club, and b) going to look rather pathetic running through said club shouting “Wait!” after a man. Oh-bloody-well. It does the trick, though, as the recipient of his damsel-in-distress call stops dead in the centre of the crowd. The crowd that helpfully parts to let him pass; John ignores the looks of contempt he earns for such a privilege.

“I don’t even know who you are.”

Mystery Man turns, raises his eyebrows, scoffs, and then engages John in the first unspoken eye conversation he’s ever had (or ever wanted to have). It’s brief, weird, but also… tactful. In a strange way, John feels that Mystery Man may just be being considerate by speaking his thoughts through his eyes and brows rather than by putting volume to them.

 _Is that really necessary?_

 _Well, yeah, it is._

“Sherlock Holmes. So now we are properly acquainted, John. Good evening.”

It’s probably a party trick, that little thing. Or perhaps it’s an ingenious scheme to distract the conversation partner from the ridiculousness of his name. It works, though; John is too enraged by being outwitted again that he doesn’t even comprehend the absurdity of the man he’s conversing with.

“How the hell did you-”

“When one is seated at a bar it is almost an invitation to eavesdrop. Seeing as you seemed so eager to get under her dress I highly doubt you fed her a pseudonym for her to address you by.”

 _Okay, Sherlock Holmes, I officially hate you. But your hearing is impressive._

He’s obviously partial to the dramatic exit, this Holmes guy, as with a smug tilt of his head he’s off again, swishing through the crowd almost as if he’s auditioning for the theatre. This is the dance number where the idiot is outwitted and the handsome protagonist promenades away through the adoring rabble. Then, of course, is the romantic ballad where the handsome protagonist and the love interest – previously held captive by the awful idiot against her will – belt out their love in the key of G Major. The idiot doesn’t appear again but no one misses him. Perhaps if he was as dazzling as the handsome protagonist then he would have gotten the main role, and the girl, and the applause at the end as the curtain goes down. Instead he’s forced to wait in the wings, gazing out at the rapturous response as he’s reminded of his own inadequacy. And then, once the show’s over, the idiot’s resigned to conjuring up elaborate metaphors in student unions for the rest of his pathetic existence.

The hubbub around him is returning again, and John finds eyes drifting away from him and his incompetence. He knows he’s an idiot, he’s not stupid (he ignores the oxymoronic nature of that thought), but he’s got enough of a sense of pride that he knows he’s not going to let this one slide, oh no, not just yet. He’s got to at least live up to his unofficial title by attempting something truly idiotic, and although there’s probably no hope of salvaging his complete failure of a date, _he’s going to bloody well try_.

When he finally pushes his way outside – now he’s no longer making a tit out of himself the bar’s occupants aren’t so accommodating – into the cold, stagnant darkness of the Wednesday night, Sarah is nowhere to be seen. Great. She’s probably run off, unable to cope with the tedium of John’s company any longer. And seeing as Sherlock doesn’t want her, what’s the point of even sticking around? John’s stomach drops a couple of feet when he comprehends the fact that she won’t even _settle_ for him. Once you’ve tasted the best, the rest won’t cut it, mmmm? Sounds about right.

John takes a couple of steps forward, craning his neck in all directions like she’ll be hiding somewhere or something, like by standing on his tiptoes she’ll reveal herself, apologetic and gushing for forgiveness. She doesn’t. He continues to wander absent-mindedly, reluctant to consider the prospect that his night is over before it’s even really begun. He wanders until he feels with every step that slaps down on the pavement he’s beating his self-respect down into the concrete. He wanders until he looks up and sees Sherlock Holmes leaning against a graffitied wall, tapping on his phone with both thumbs, his face illuminated by the colourless light of the screen held almost up to his nose. John’s desperate enough to approach him again.

“Sherlock!” He calls from a fair few feet away, pressing forward. The man’s less intimidating from in the distance. Sherlock looks up; his expression would almost be startled if it wasn’t so impossibly, permanently serene.

“John.” He answers; it’s a question, an accusation, a statement and a curse word all in one.

“I was just wondering… I was wondering if you’d seen Sarah. I mean… because you left at about the same time. Have you seen her?”

Sherlock shrugs, “Can’t say I have. Sorry.”

There it is again: the insult masquerading as an apology. He may as well just be frank with him, he may as well just tell him to fuck off because John can read him, he doesn’t need his pride spared. Not now.

“Oh, okay. Right.”

“Ah, John,” Sherlock’s eyes suddenly crinkle and John’s reminded of his Grandma for some bizarre, horrific reason, “the night is but young. There’s still time for you to… ‘get _laid_ ’.”

“I don’t- I’m not like that. Don’t say that. I- I actually _liked_ her.”

“ _Yes_ , and I’m sure there are lots of other girls back in the SU who you’ll like the same amount. And I’m also sure that, provided they’re supplemented with the right amount of alcohol, they’ll like you just as much.”

John starts, “Wow. That’s harsh, considering we’ve just met.”

“No, that’s simply honesty. If you want ego stroking, you’re better off heading back inside.” Sherlock gestures with his mobile, and John knows the signs of a brush off when he sees one. He can’t quite believe the man’s audacity; is he possibly the rudest guy John’s ever had the pleasure to know? There are a couple of giant dicks on his course – of course, he’s studying medicine at Bart’s for Christ’s sake, that always attracts the dicks – but Sherlock Holmes has got to be the worst. Perhaps he’s trying to be. Perhaps that’s his charm: treat ‘em mean, keep ‘em keen. John, frankly, doesn’t even want anything to do with him anymore, but there’s no way he’s going back into that bar, not until a sufficient amount of time has elapsed for him to feel like a man again.

So he’s got a choice: go home and wallow, or stay talking to the King Of The Pricks.

“How come I’ve not seen you before? Do you go here?”

Sherlock lowers his phone with a swish of his wrist and a raise of the eyebrows that says: _You’re seriously doing this_?

“University is a big place. Surprisingly you sometimes come across new acquaintances. But no, I’m not enrolled. I’m merely visiting a friend.” He smirks at the flagstones of the pavement, then lifts his eyes to meet John’s gaze again, “Well I say _friend_ …”

John doesn’t really know how to respond to that, so he continues with the questioning. He’s having a hard time imagining someone like Sherlock Holmes with friends. It seems rather unbecoming. But he doesn’t mention it; he knows that the guy would probably be _proud_ of that. Say that it _suits him_ , or something.

“So where do you go?”

“As much as I am enjoying this cross-examination, I am unsure about its necessity.”

John finds his eyes defecting to the floor, for fuck’s sake, he finds himself _embarrassed_ , “Sorry.”

“I studied Law at Trinity for a year, but it was far too dull so I left.”

“Dull?”

 _Trinity… that’s Cambridge. Is it Cambridge?_

“Elementary, simplistic, easy.” Sherlock waves a dismissive hand and almost whacks John with it. He’s unsure just how unintentional the gesture was. “I find most outlets of pedagogy are.” As if by even conveying his point he’s submitting to The Man, Sherlock lets out a long, exasperated sigh.

John doesn’t say anything. It’s generally a good plan of action, because it seems opening his mouth isn’t particularly conducive to positive things happening. Perhaps if he hadn’t opened his mouth in front of his Neolithic housemates then Sarah would never have found out about his silly little crush, he’d never have been coerced into going out with her, she’d never have been coerced into going out with _him_ , tonight wouldn’t have happened and John wouldn’t be faced with tramping home, watching his breath gusting out in front of him, feeling like the dragon just vanquished by Saint George.

“Do you want to come back to mine?” John asks, looking up and wondering why the hell he even made the plan in the first place if he’s just going to chuck it out of the window before the ink’s even dried on the parchment. _Fuck_. Because, you know, asking someone to come home with you generally constitutes talking, and definitely isn’t what normal, sensible people do when faced with someone they’re sure they borderline hate already.

Sherlock’s expression doesn’t change a jot. Somehow this is frightening.

“John,” He says with unnervingly steady eye contact, “while I’m flattered by your interest, I’m afraid-”

John, in his surprise, inhales and exhales simultaneously and makes a charming noise that sort of sounds like the word “No” looped back on itself through a crackling speaker. “No, _no_. No.” His hands stretch out in front of him and hover suspended in mid-air until John realises he looks like he’s grabbing Sherlock’s imaginary breasts and he drops them to his sides again, “I wasn’t… no. The girl, in the bar? Sarah? No. _No_.”

Sherlock’s face still hasn’t moved. “You seem to have communicated your point.”

“Sorry.” Wait, why did he just apologise? He wasn’t the one who jumped to the ridiculous conclusion. But shit, he _needs_ to stop _staring at him_ like that. John closes his eyes, lets out a long breath, and opens his lids to look at Sherlock again. “You’re a twat, and you just ruined my date, but I’ve really…” He shifts his weight to his other foot, “I’ve got no one else. Rory and Sam have both gone back home, Phil’s fucked off to God knows where and, frankly, I don’t want to have to go home and sit by myself the whole night feeling shite. So the offer’s there. I’m only at Cromwell Mews, so it’s not far-”

“Cromwell Mews?”

John stops, stunned by the absence of a rejection. To be fair, he’s not expecting Sherlock to agree. It’s hardly an inviting prospect: going home with a guy so desperate not to be alone that he’ll invite home the very twat who was the cause of his dire night out. Any sane person would take offence at the mild insult, politely rebuff him and then make a swift exit. Sherlock hasn’t done any of those things. But Sherlock doesn’t seem sane, not really. Annoying, definitely; interesting, perhaps; but sane? Never. They should probably make a club.

“…Yeah.”

Suddenly there’s life in those icy blue eyes, there’s desire, there’s the prospect of excitement.

“Lead the way, John Watson.”

“How did you-?” John begins but Sherlock’s already moving; he slips his Blackberry back into his jacket pocket and wraps his coat around him, eyeing John sagaciously, “You know what, forget it.”

“Good choice.”


	2. Chapter 2

John wasn’t lying when he said it wasn’t far. Number One Cromwell Mews, John’s second year home, is in fact just round the corner from the Union. Well, round the corner and down the road a bit and then the next right, and a bit further down, but it’s only ten minutes at the most. They proceed down the pavements, John’s shuffling steps in sync with Sherlock’s strides; he has to almost jog to keep up with the pace that the taller man is maintaining. When they reach the main road Sherlock suddenly slows, as if it’s not just their feet that are moving in sync. John turns to him, struck by an impulsive curiosity.

“If you don’t mind me asking, how old are you?”

Sherlock’s palms hit his chest in an imitation of demureness, “A madame never reveals her age!”

Oh, the man’s got a sense of humour. Finally. Albeit a bizarre one, but still, it’s got a recognisable hint of wit. John shoots him an imitation of a death look in return; the sudden grin refusing to budge from his face is preventing the stare from being fully convincing. Sherlock’s smiling too. It’s crooked, merely a curving of the left side of his mouth, and slightly peculiar, but somehow it suits him perfectly. Of course, one cannot be a _true maverick_ if one does not _smile_ like one.

“Twenty-one. Schooled by my parents up until the age of sixteen; entered the higher education system early; dropped out just after I turned seventeen.” He turns to John, eyes wide and bright like he’s recounting a fairytale to a young, naïve sibling, “And I’ve been a man of the world ever since.”

“Can they let you do that? Go to university at sixteen?”

“They let my brother do it.”

With that he turns away, and John doesn’t need to be told to shut up. They spend the rest of the walk in a silence only infrequently punctuated by irrepressible shivers from the icy temperatures. It’s only John who’s affected, though; Sherlock Holmes seems to be impervious to the cold.

When they reach the front door Sherlock lingers behind, gazing around like he’s trying to put a price on the heap of crumbling bricks and peeling paint. It’s a shithole; John doesn’t need someone else reminding him of that. It may be a shithole, but, still, it’s _his_ shithole… and that doesn’t sound weird at all. He makes a mental note never to express that distinct thought out loud.

“Is this Cromwell Mews?” Sherlock enquires, his voice distant. John slides his key into the lock and hopes to hell that Phil hasn’t been in to put the safety catch on since he left.

“Yes. I know what you’re thinking, so just don’t, okay? This is London, and you get what you pay for…” The door swings open with a gratifying swish and John steps into the mauve-carpeted hall. He proceeds further on into the kitchen, banging the light switch on the hall wall with a closed fist as he passes. The switch in the kitchen gets the same treatment and an extractor fan hums into life, obscuring his words somewhat. “Don’t worry about locking the door; Phil will probably do it when he gets back. I’ll just get us something to drink…” He retrieves two green plastic tumblers from the first cupboard on the left and levers the fridge open with his elbow. Its vacant whir seems like an apology for its sorry state; they’re seriously low on milk, butter, jam, meat… pretty much everything John needs for his breakfast.

 _Phil, you’re a star, you really are._

Thankfully there’s a litre bottle of cider on the bottom shelf, so John hooks that out with his foot and does the same with the fridge door as the green-tinted plastic bottle rolls its way across the lino. He’s begins to wonder why he’s being so elaborate when he could have just dumped the glasses on the side, but then it becomes sort of obvious and embarrassing.

“I hope cider is okay,” John calls out to his guest, “because that’s all we really have. Phil should have been to the supermarket but he’s a _dick_ , so… that’s all we have.”

It’s not because he wants to impress him. That’s ridiculous. And if it were the case, it would be seriously mortifying for John. But it’s not, so it’s not. Yes. It’s not.

John divvies out the questionable liquid (the stuff’s Sainsbury’s Basics cider; he doesn’t even want to look at the list of ingredients) into the tumblers and replaces the bottle. He calls out to Sherlock again as he grasps the drinks in his hands.

“By the way, you can shut the door. It’s getting kind of cold.”

John spins round to find himself conversing with an empty corridor. There even seems to be a Sherlock-shaped hole in the air, like the particles are so stunned by the man’s sudden disappearance that they’re frozen in shock and mourning. John sighs and, headbutting the light switch as he passes, proceeds upstairs. At least he doesn’t forget to kick the front door closed as he does so.

“Thanks for-” He begins as he strides into his bedroom to find it unoccupied. Oh. He’d assumed that Sherlock had just gone right on ahead and… wait, he can hear noises. John follows the rustling of newspaper and creaks of footsteps on uneven floorboards until he’s standing in the doorway of Phil’s bedroom, drinks in hands, watching Sherlock rummaging through his housemate’s belongings. He coughs, once. Sherlock straightens up at the noise almost like he’s had a voltage run through him.

“Oh. You’re here.” He lets something fall from his right hand, but John’s not quick enough to see what it is, “I thought I’d wait for you upstairs.”

“This isn’t my room.”

Sherlock spins; his coat fans out around him like a superhero’s cape. But that’s ridiculous. “Is it not? My mistake. Do put me on the correct path.”

John nods, eyebrows raised, and gestures in the direction of his room. This time Sherlock follows him with his head bowed like a disciplined puppy – or at least so John hopes. He’s probably striding after him with his nose to the heavens, smirking sinfully at some intelligent private joke way above John’s intellect, but who the hell cares; it’s less demoralising to think the former.

A push of the door reveals John’s hiding place. It’s modest, yet somehow not cramped; there’s enough room for all John’s books and DVDs and piles and _piles_ of papers seemingly absent of a filing system. If pulled up about it John will insist that he does in fact have an extremely advanced and elaborate system of arranging his sheets: if he puts them all in the same place, it’s guaranteed that everything will be there. It’s just locating which is sometimes the issue. His bed is pushed to the eastern wall with its head by the window and the foot up against the bookcase next to the door, stuffed with titles that are long, and medical, and written by people with collections of letters after their names that seem to be longer than the names themselves. The walls are surprisingly devoid of posters, but there’s a large Union Jack flag stretched out across the wall he’s got his bed against. Opposite is his desk with his sleeping laptop gently humming and a printer with a satisfying layer of dust.

There is a remarkable lack of chairs. Both men become aware of the fact simultaneously, and John clears his throat.

“I’m sorry, there’s nowhere else to…”

Sherlock nods in understanding and loops round, navigating through the assault course of open textbooks and piles of clothing neither of them are quite sure are clean. John silently curses himself for deciding against the tidy up; his self-confidence had failed him when it came to anticipating a return journey _avec femme_. The man he’s actually taken home perches himself on the very edge of the bed, arse barely touching the duvet (at least it’s a relatively unsoiled and grown up one; blue and grey stripes) as he stares back at John expectantly, eyes wider than he’s ever seen them.

John seats himself down next to the man still in full winter gear: coat, scarf and all. They sit for a moment that feels like a minute until John turns his head to address Sherlock and finds that the guy’s been staring at him, still, all this time. The stare quickly defects to the desk across from them; John swallows.

“You can take your coat off, you know.”

“Why would I? I’m cold.”

“You’re _cold_?”

“You’re _not_?” John watches Sherlock’s profile as the man speaks; the movements of his face seem subtle, delicate, different from the side. “We have _heating_ in our house. Forgive me for becoming accustomed to habitable temperatures.”

“It’s still rude.”

“If you _insist_.” Sherlock acquiesces, ascending from his position on the bed.

John’s thankful for the sudden movement, as the relative silence and the stillness had been beginning to unnerve him. He’s reminded of romantic comedy films he’s been forced to sit through by his sister, and he knows that awkward perched positions on beds in silent, dark bedrooms are usually conducive to blinding moments of sexual comprehension. He’d rather not. In the relief of the movement, John gets a burst of ungainly confidence.

“So have you always been an arsehole?”

Sherlock’s eyebrows elevate but he doesn’t blanche at the insult, “So I’ve been told. Repeatedly.”

“You know, just because you’re interesting, that doesn’t mean you have to always act so… standoffish.”

The movement stops. John’s said something wrong.

“You think I’m interesting?” Sherlock enquires, looking over his shoulder at the boy still grasping the two glasses of alcohol, internally flagellating himself. Eyes close as if in prayer, then open again in resignation.

“Yes, of course you are. You’re… quite… extraordinary.”

The turn of Sherlock’s head hides the smile that neither really wants to see. “Thank you.”

“You’re… welcome, I suppose.”

Sherlock finally extracts himself from the swishy garment and flings it across the room where it flops ungainly against the computer chair. Traversing backwards, he seats himself back down and shuffles so his back is resting against the wall.

“So what was it you said you did again?” John asks, offering him one of the plastic tumblers of alcohol he’s still holding. He copies the man’s shuffling movement once Sherlock accepts the drink.

“I’m a Consulting Detective.”

“Bloody hell, what’s that?”

“People come to me with problems… I solve them. Fairly easy to grasp. So you want to be a doctor?”

John somehow feels flattered by the turn of the conversation. He’s not sure whether it’s just arrogance bubbling up to the surface, pride, or the compliment of such an fascinating personality actually being interested in him. Although it’s probably not the latter – that would be awful for him if it were.

“I was thinking of joining the army, actually.” John replies, unable to conceal the note of satisfaction in his voice.

“Army doctor, mmmm? You’ll be needed.”

Sherlock raises the cup to his lips and, seemingly unaware of its contents, empties half of it into his mouth. The cup lowers, the realisation hits. With cheeks puffed full of liquid he swallows exuberantly, wide-eyed, and then lets out an “ah” of both disgust and relief. John’s amused quirk of the lips is met with a grimace.

“What _was_ that?”

“Um, Sainsbury’s Basics cider.”

Sherlock looks bewildered, like he’s either not come across cider or Sainsbury’s before. John’s not quite sure which he’s more appalled about. “ _Cider_?” The detective looks like he’s about to hurl. “Have you not anything stronger?”

“Stronger? Christ. Okay.” John wasn’t aware that the point of the night was to get absolutely sloshed, but now he feels fully informed. The only worrying thing is, with the way he knocked that back unacquainted with its contents, Sherlock seems like a bit of a heavy drinker. Whereas John is a bit of a… not. He’s getting better at it, though. Good enough to know where the secret stashes are, and just what is hidden there. “I reckon Sam might have some gin in his room-”

Sherlock leans forward, like he doesn’t want to be overheard in the quiet, _empty_ room, “No, I meant something _stronger_.” His eyes are wide but intense in a way that John’s never seen before; it goes past expectant and into some new, _Sherlock_ territory. The man’s got a way with expressions and nuances that John’s only beginning to understand but it fascinates him. He’s going to end up with a whole new appreciation of the human form just from one twattish stranger, and that would be annoying if it wasn’t so much like an epiphany.

After he’s finished his foray into romanticism, the connotations of Sherlock’s words hit John much in the way a half past seven alarm does on an exam day.

“What, like- you mean… _drugs_?”

Sherlock leans back abruptly, “Oh don’t look so repulsed, of course I meant drugs.” His expression shifts from fractious back to the Sherlock expectancy again, “So do you have any?”

“No, I don’t!”

The detective scoffs like he’s just been told the most ridiculous untruth of his life, “You’re a medical student and you don’t have drugs in your bedroom? What sort of a university is this?”

Now it’s John’s turn to lean back in disbelief. The pair of them must look a sight: veering away from one another like they’re both proclaimed sufferers of halitosis. It’s a good thing there’s no one else there; this whole situation would attract a few raised eyebrows. Really, all it would need would be for Phil to come home, and that would royally-

 _Oh. Phil_.

Somehow the two of them reach the same conclusion simultaneously; they’re making a habit of that. John feels slightly impressed and bewildered at the same time, like he’s drifting away from a spaceship of his own design.

“That’s what you had in your hand. That’s why you were in Phil’s room.”

Air whistles in through Sherlock’s teeth, “Right _and_ wrong. That was merely my reward for finding the other thing I was looking for.”

John ignores the obvious leading comment, because frankly he’s got bigger concerns than the man’s game of finders keepers. “So Phil’s been keeping drugs in this house. What a bastard.”

“Right on both counts.” Sherlock’s gaze lingers on the doorway, “But you know, there’s a way of getting rid of the offending substance. Then he, and your house, will be clean.”

“Oh right?”

“Yes.” Their eyes meet and once again Sherlock’s expression surpasses everything John’s ever seen, or wanted to see. He’s never known cold blue to be so… fiery; it’s a horrendous oxymoron but the ice in them seems to smoulder like cerulean lava. “We smoke it.”

John’s first reaction is to burst out laughing. He’s unsure if he’s laughing at his own pretentiousness – oh, the cerulean lava! – or the ridiculousness of Sherlock’s suggestion. Because sorry, John Watson is a good citizen and he has standards not so easily degraded, thank you.

“Is something funny?”

“I’m sorry. I don’t take drugs.”

Sherlock’s face takes on the _‘I’m not angry, just disappointed’_ look that John’s been exposed to more than he’d like to admit. Not that he’s a delinquent, though; that’s the whole point of this, he’s a good person! And good people don’t take drugs.

“Oh. I thought you were more interesting than that. I’m sorry; do forgive my impertinence.”

 _Oh no. No. That’s just low._

“You thought I was interesting?”

A yawn of dubious sincerity, “At least you were beginning to be.”

“Hang on- that’s not fair. I’m interesting!” God, there’s that look again, the one with the eyebrows and the unspoken _‘really?_ ’, and John wants to scratch his eyes out because why does the guy have to be s Goddamn persuasive? “I _am_!”

“Of _course_ you are, John.”

“Stop- just stop this, it’s unfair. I’m not letting you trick me into taking drugs with you.”

“No one’s tricking anyone… I am merely suggesting it would be a good idea and I’ll respect you more if you join me in the activity. That’s all.”

“Surely it’s supposed to be the other way round? Aren’t you supposed to respect my ability to say no?”

“That’s for people with morals, John. And less intelligence. You make a show of rejecting this supposedly _immoral_ practice and yet why am I feeling a lack of sincerity in your denunciation?”

“Don’t be a dick.” Is John’s immediate response, and that’s better, somehow, because if he thinks about it any more he’ll realise that Sherlock is right and his curiosity is trying very hard to subdue his better judgement. It’s better to insult, move on, forget. Of course that’s hardly going to happen, is it; John’s forgotten whom it is he’s arguing with.

“I have been reliably informed that isn’t possible. Perhaps if I sit here in silence while you beat yourself up for your true feelings and deny them for as long as possible until you eventually realise you’ll hate yourself forever if you miss this opportunity to indulge a rare impulse and then consent to my request… would that be better?”

John turns away and stares at the carpet for a long time, trying not to think about how much of an idiot he’s going to feel when the inevitable happens. Sherlock’s sitting there, he reckons, probably grinning at him with the smug satisfaction that’s the equivalent of having your eyes grinded up against a cheese grater. He knows all it’ll take is an ingestion of pride and a meeting of gazes to confirm the man’s entire hypothesising speech, but John’s not particularly keen to add another vertical mark to his demoralisation tally.

Nevertheless…

John looks up, winces, nods, “Go and get it.”

Sherlock doesn’t need to be told twice; John swivels in his seat to watch him leap up with a feline elegance and depart through the doorway in two gleeful strides.

“You’ve got a skull.” Sherlock announces when he reappears a minute later, suspicious looking brown paper bag in hand. John’s never actually seen drugs before, illegal ones, but this looks appropriately dubious and seems to suit the purpose. Especially when held in the disturbingly long fingers of Sherlock Holmes. John’s head switches first to Sherlock’s besuited figure in the doorway, then to the skull perched on the end of a shelf that looks just above his reach.

“Yes, strange that, being a _medical student and all_. Surprisingly it isn’t for practising my renditions of Hamlet with.”

Sherlock strides across the room, flinging the paper bag into John’s lap; he picks up the skull with a twist of his wrist and holds it in his palm not unlike the Dane. John predicts his next words and he’s not disappointed.

“ _Alas, poor Yorick_ … I knew him, _John_.” The brunette turns his head almost in a swooning motion; his eyes fix on John’s own for a moment but then crinkle in a jarring display of self-deprecating humour, “…And that’s all I know.” The skull is extended towards him and John shakes his head with vigour.

“Medicine. Not English Literature.” He almost adds _You should ask Sarah_ , and then is happy to decide against it. Things are actually going… sort of… _well_. Like that wasn’t the kiss of death before, but John thinks it anyway.

Attention diverted, Sherlock tosses the skull onto a pile of clothes that looks squashy enough to avoid cranial damage and settles himself down on the bed again. John watches him set to work with an expected but still astonishing precision; the man removes rolling papers from one of his inside pockets – oh, he’s a smoker – and fills them with the offending substance, licks, rolls, twists the end.

“I thought we could share.” He adds as an explanation, but John’s dazed expression isn’t because of that.

“You’ve done this before.”

“ _And you haven’t_.” Sherlock replies; he says it like his previous incredulousness hasn’t yet worn off, like it’s still the most bizarre thing he’s ever heard, which isn’t entirely fair. “Does it put you off to know I have?”

John can’t lie. “…No.”

This seems to please Sherlock. John hates it, but it pleases him too. A flame flickers into life out of nowhere, seemingly, and soon the roll up is glowing; the orange brightens when Sherlock takes the joint into his mouth and inhales deeply, eyes falling closed almost unconsciously. The pause that follows is simultaneously horrific and perfect: John can’t avert his gaze from the glow of the joint and the curve of Sherlock’s lips and the fans of eyelashes falling on his cheeks that look like… well, John is immediately reminded of the legs of flies, but that’s not a particularly nice image. Sherlock deserves better, he thinks, so amends it to ‘butterflies’. Ten seconds feels like ten minutes until Sherlock exhales, unveils, speaks.

“I prefer cocaine, in all honesty, but it’s much more difficult to procure. So sometimes one has to make do. You’re very trusting, aren’t you?”

“What?” John’s still thinking about the butterflies.

“I said you’re very trusting, aren’t you. We’ve only just met, you know virtually nothing about me, and already you’ve allowed me to trespass into your bedroom, steal from one of your housemates and engage in illegal recreational drug taking. For all you know, I could be a psychopath.”

He says the last part like it’s a private joke John’s supposed to understand. The student’s reply is stalled by the sudden appearance of a marijuana cigarette in his face. The look on Sherlock’s own is telling him that it’s _his_ turn; it’s time for his segment of the show. Ignoring the fact that he doesn’t have a goddamn clue what he’s doing, John brings the fag to his lips and, as seems the correct method, breathes in.

It’s horrible. There’s smoke in his throat and somehow it’s in his _nose_ and he can almost feel the toxins clogging up his lungs and short-circuiting his brain but Sherlock is still watching so he ignores it all. He knows how stupid that is, he knows full well what he’s doing but it works better to defer, pretend that he’s under the control of a higher power, that he’s being influenced by Sherlock Holmes and not his own, foolish desire to impress a self-proclaimed stranger.

So after he exhales, he takes another drag. Sherlock’s lips curve upwards.

“That’s not _quite_ right.” John replies after his second inhale of the toxic, illegal, dangerous, awful substance that he’s definitely going to keep taking, “I mean, I know who you are – you’re Sherlock Holmes – and that you’re a Consulting Detective who found Cambridge easy and who likes weed but prefers cocaine. And you’re not trespassing; I invited you.”

Sherlock’s lips continue their ascent at the corners. “You say that, and yet you have no objections at all. You really are marvellous. Possibly – well, in fact, most definitely – an idiot, but a marvellous idiot.”

“Er… thanks?”

“It’s a shame that the war will change you. Or is it a shame? Perhaps not. It’d be interesting to know you post-Afghanistan. We should keep in touch.”

“Hang on.” John’s eyebrows rocket skywards, “Is that a come on?”

Sherlock merely motions for John to take another drag, to which John complies without even a questioning glance. Oh dear, he’s on the verge of being under the thumb of a man he’s known for all of two hours or so. Not that he’s complaining. It’s becoming sort of… well, not _nice_ , but not as disagreeable.

“So why did you come here?” John suggests after another pause that just consists of one watching the other inhale marijuana.

“You invited me, John.” Sherlock replies, chuckling.

“No, I mean. I mean-”

“I know what you meant, John. Your housemate Phil. He has a car, correct?”

“Yeah, Fiat Punto. Green.”

 _Hold on there, John, that’s a bit inebriated of you. How much of that stuff have you had?_

“Sometimes disappears for days at a time?”

“…Yeah, it does. Why does that-”

Sherlock leans back with the vague resignation of one being forced to tell a secret they’re not reluctant to tell, but have quite enjoyed the exclusivity of being the only one knowing. “I’ve been tracking down members of a gang responsible for multiple robberies of jewellery shops across London. None of the members already located have driving licenses or own vehicles, but they obviously had their own form of getaway transport; the incidents are widespread. So there’s a driver. Find him… I’ll have my _set_.”

The temperature of John’s insides suddenly plummets past zero.

“You’re not saying that-”

“Quite right. I’m saying that Phillip Hargreaves loves his green S-reg Fiat Punto so much that he has it serviced every month, travelling to town in the vehicle and returning home on the bus in the early hours of the morning.”

He watches John vainly strain for the logic in the suggestion. The student flails around for a moment – mentally, not physically; he’s still taking drags from the roll-up – until inevitability seizes him by the shoulders and forces him to nod. Mentally, not physically, again. Of course.

“But Phil wouldn’t. He just wouldn’t!”

“Loyal as well, I see. You’re halfway to becoming the perfect soldier. And, as you’ll find, peer pressure is a dangerous thing. Especially when it comes from your family.”

John chooses to ignore that derisive comment. Not because it’s irrelevant; he knows all about familial pressure, having the combined hopes of the entire Watson clan on his shoulders thanks to his screw-up older sister who thought that she could save the world and solve her problems with the crack and hiss of a freshly opened can of beer. He knows what it’s like to be unsure whether your thoughts are really your thoughts at all, or are they just your parents’? And he knows the feeling of having no one to blame but yourself. Blaming yourself is easier; no one gets hurt that way. John doesn’t know if he’d be able to forgive himself if he ever resented his parents for it.

It’s just… one of those things. And besides, the idea of becoming an army doctor sounds quite appealing now anyway. Not that he’d be able to back out even if he wanted to.  
But now is really not the time for a reassessment of his life’s choices, so he fills the silence again:

“Why are you here, then?”

Sherlock scoffs again, like he just can’t believe the ignorance of the boy sitting next to him, “I did just tell you. Perhaps I should take that…” With a movement so swift John’s eyes almost don’t register it, Sherlock swoops in and retrieves the joint from John’s stubby fingers with his own slender ones.

“I’m not high.” John states, even though he can’t quite verify its veracity.

“Of course you’re high. We both are. The difference is, I feel _stimulated_. You, on the other hand… I am unsure. Say the alphabet.”

“What?” John’s head jerks backwards on its own accord in a sort of startled, amused movement, “Are you serious? What good will that do?”

If Sherlock lets out another exasperated sigh, or even opens his mouth to take in the breath to do so, John is most definitely going to punch him square in the nose. That’d teach him: blood pouring out of that immaculate column, dripping down the chiseled contours of his cheeks, and his jaw, and- wait, what was John even supposed to be doing again?

“Say it.”

John rolls his eyes, hopefully communicating that he’s only doing this just so he can figure out what the hell its purpose is, not because he’s under the thumb or anything.

“A, b, c…” He starts hesitantly, Sherlock’s eyes widen and his head dips in mock encouragement, “…d, e, f, g… I don’t see why this is helping.”

“Now backwards.”

“Sherlock- okay, this is just stupid. I can’t even do that normally, let alone whilst _under the influence_.”

Sherlock looks genuinely appalled, “You can’t?” His eyes drift to the floor, still wide, “God, what must it be like in there? What do you _do_?”

“You know, normal things… assignments, reading, socialising… things that _normal_ people do? Rather than sitting at home rehearsing the alphabet in reverse?”

“Be sensible, John, like I need to _rehearse_.”

“Oh, sorry, I forgot that you’re naturally brilliant at everything.”

“Well obviously.”

There’s a pause.

“If you’re so immaculately clever, then, why are you still here? Shouldn’t you have caught Phil by now? Why do you need to be sitting here with me, getting high; shouldn’t you be off _solving crimes_ or helping the police, or something? Surely I’m just _wasting your intellect_ with my dull conversation?”

“On the contrary, I find you quite interesting.”

“Oh, that’s great. I’m just a science experiment to you, then?”

“ _On the contrary, I find you quite interesting_. If I were to experiment on you, it is most likely I wouldn’t be doing it whilst under the influence. One is more prone to making mistakes whilst intoxicated. _You_ being intoxicated, however, is no real mistake.”

“Wait, what is that supposed to mean?”

“You’re a questioning bisexual.”

John sprays saliva an impressive distance.

“ _What_? No I’m not!”

“Or, more correctly, you’re a questioning bisexual that hasn’t begun questioning yet. But you will do. Unconsciously you’ve been thinking the thoughts but just haven’t picked up on them yet.”

“Stop talking shit. Just because you can phrase it all impressively with your flowery… psychoanalysis… _vocab_ doesn’t mean that it’s true, or that I’m sucked in for a moment. I’m not gay.”

“I wasn’t saying that. I was saying that you’re a questioning bisexual.”

“Same bloody difference.”

“No, that is completely untrue. We are not the same.”

“You can say that again. No way would I ever… no way. Just- no way! You’re talking bollocks.”

“Don’t kid yourself, John. Self-denial is not an attractive characteristic.”

“I’m not… _I’m not_. No one’s kidding anyone, okay? I don’t even know why we’re having this conversation. Yeah, so, maybe you’re gay, but I’m not. Or _bisexual_ , or whatever –sexual you want me to be. So just stop it, okay? It isn’t going to happen.”

“On the _contrary_ …”

“Do you just want to shut u-”

Suddenly, Sherlock’s face is remarkably close to John’s. So close that he can almost feel the hairs on the other man’s nose and his warm, suspiciously scented breath, for God’s sake. John’s first thought is that he’s hallucinating, and it makes sense; he may be a first time user but he knows all about the effects of marijuana. He’d actually prefer to be hallucinating, really, because if he’s not and someone walks in… he doesn’t want to have to explain this. Although this hallucination is a bit crap, as they go. He’s not even flying, and there aren’t any rainbows or unicorns. Let down.

“You’re not hallucinating, John.” Sherlock whispers and John feels it on his face. He also feels the crushing of his stomach under the weight of all the disappointment that just settled there. “Unfortunately you’re too rational for that. Or fortunately, perhaps, considering the situation.” He pauses but doesn’t move. John wishes that he would, because he’s worried that if he moves his lips too much they might… why the hell are they even like this, anyway? Has the guy not heard of personal space?

“What would you say, John,” Their eyes meet and then separate quickly, “if I told you that this _was_ an experiment?”

“I’d say you were a bastard for lying to me earlier, and that I’d appreciate you getting the hell away from my face.”

“But this is the experiment.” Sherlock replies like that’s a perfectly acceptable response, and an excuse for John being nose to nose with a man he’s only just met, really.

“I don’t want to be experimented on. So just…” John moves to lean back, but strong, gripping fingers stop him. “Okay, there’s a line, and you just crossed it. Let me go.”

“ _Experiment_.” Sherlock reminds in a pressed tone, but that’s ridiculous; John’s the only one allowed to get grumpy, what when he’s got a stranger restraining him and looking rather like he’s about to make the moves on him.

“If I ask what the fucking experiment is, will you let me go?”

“Well, no, but you can ask.”

John doesn’t. This makes Sherlock laugh although John can’t fathom why because he wasn’t trying to be amusing. The whole thing’s supposed to frustrate him enough so he’ll abandon the ‘experiment’ and let go, and then he can leave and John can set about recovering from the headache that’s beginning to set in.

“It’s almost burned out. You may as well finish it.”

“What?”

Fingers loosen their grip on shoulders, and there’s a welcome retraction of Sherlock’s face from John’s own. Sherlock extends his hand, palm down, towards him, and it’s only then that John realises he’s talking about the joint still smouldering between his index and middle fingers. It’s a glorious realisation of the absence of metaphor; his brain seems to want to conceal from him just what kind of metaphor he’d been anticipating, but that’s beside the point. Still watching Sherlock with suspicious but relieved eyes, John relieves the raven-haired man of his roll-up and brings it to his lips again. Sherlock, in turn, watches him inhale. It’s probably nothing special, his technique; he’s probably being judged significantly right now for the curl of his lips, or the flaring of his nostrils or something, but he’s no seasoned professional. Hell, he used to be a _good boy_. Now he’s a real hardcore rule-breaker, smoking weed with a virtual stranger in his bedroom. In silence. Sherlock doesn’t even sound like he’s breathing, which is stupid, really, because the atmosphere isn’t that tense. John’s just sucking on this joint, and Sherlock’s just watching him with a measured, serene expression. When the heat by his fingers becomes uncomfortable John exhales, finally, and leans across the bed to stub the fiery end out onto a side plate of dubious cleanliness. He’s not quite sure what he must have left on it for it to go that strange yellow colour, but it’s probably not all that sanitary. For a trainee doctor, he should know better, really.

John hears Sherlock exhale and turns back to him, wondering quite what he’s done now.

He should be wondering about what he’s about to do. But there’s no time for that.  
Not when in a split second, John launches himself across the bed and crushes his lips against Sherlock’s in a needy, lustful kiss.

“What the fuck?” He exclaims when they part, breathing heavily.

“Excuse me?”

John settles back on his haunches, heart pounding in his throat, “What did you do to the spliff? What did you do?”

“I didn’t do anything. It wasn’t the drugs. It was you.”

“What the _hell_ do you mean.”

“Our close proximity tricked your subconscious into thinking we were about to kiss. Then, when I retreated and you realised we hadn’t, you missed it.” Sherlock explains, grinning with self-satisfaction. “I told you the urges were there, you just hadn’t noticed them yet.”

John’s thoughts are swirling too violently for him to care about the smugness of a stranger. A stranger he’s just kissed, who’s awakened things in John he’d never even known were sleeping, who’s swept into his life with a swish of his coat and quirk of his lips, and who John doesn’t ever want to leave. He’s going to start by keeping him in his bed.

God, what the bloody hell is he doing.

“So was that the experiment?” John seeks clarification as he proceeds forwards again. Sherlock is still grinning the grin of a man who is about to _get some_ , and is damn pleased about it.

“Yes. My conclusion was exactly what I’d been hoping for.”

“You’re an absolute bastard.” John mutters, closing the gap between their mouths again. Somehow in the contact Sherlock is still capable of a riposte:

“And you’re an idiot.”

He’s absolutely right, but John couldn’t care a jot right now. John Watson is a fucking idiot through and through; he always has been and always will be. He’s an idiot for ignoring himself to accommodate the needs of others; he’s an idiot for letting himself be swept along with the tide and simply hoping for the best; he’s an idiot for only now realising that it’s not talent that’s got him here, it’s luck and well-timed epiphanies; he’s an idiot for not yet realising that he’s entirely better than this. But mostly, he’s an idiot for being about to have sex with a stranger. Who is a man. Under the influence.

But not everyone can be Sherlock Holmes. And Sherlock Holmes wouldn’t be brilliant if it weren’t for the kind, considerate people blessed with an intellect they choose not to use for a greater good they don’t even acknowledge, let alone understand.

Somehow John has managed to justify this, and he’s going to hold onto that until his knuckles blanche because _God Damn! Lord, I cannot understand why I’m kissing this man apart from that he’s beautiful, he’s perfect, and I bloody well want to._

It seems John’s not the only one who has been awakened. Sherlock, previously barbed, restrained, a maverick laced in tightly by the constraints of his accent and his education, splits open like a book dropped on its spine. Underneath there’s sexuality, there’s hunger, there’s a ferocity in the sweeps of his hands over John’s back, thighs, torso. John’s own palms are cradling the angles of Sherlock’s jaw as their lips meet and tug and tongues writhe. John doesn’t know it when it happens, but next time he checks his jacket is draped over Sherlock’s much the same way he is over the man himself; it can’t be possible to feel boneless and rigid at the same time, but it’s happening. As the student’s hands fall to the buttons of Sherlock’s shirt the detective lets out a moan dredged up from the depths of a devilish, erotic hell. The shirt is open in a flash; John _is_ training to be a doctor, after all.

“Oh God, I don’t normally do this.” He murmurs into the pectorals arching up to greet him. There’s a laugh from somewhere above his crown.

“I do.”

It’s ignored. Not because it hurts, because although he’d love to be the first John knows that the odds are weighed against him there, and it would hardly be fair: Sherlock isn’t the first either. It’s ignored because John is completely and utterly certain; the thoughts had been there all along but he’d not been _certain_. He’s not going to fuck this up by yielding to his own pitiable ego.

His thoughts weren’t as swift as they’d seemed to him; he’s been still for too long. Sherlock’s noticed and his breathing’s slowed.

“Does that bother you? My _rampant sexuality_?”

 _Probably not the best time to make jokes, mid-stripping._

“No!” John protests into skin again, “No, no, _no_. Just get your fucking clothes off.”

“Yes, Doctor.”

 _Fuck._

Sherlock’s hands slide downwards in an unexpected rebellion from his speech; from the looks of it he’s trying to… _Jesus_. “Ah, so you like that, do you? _Doctor Watson_?”

John would really, honestly tell the man to shut the hell up if his full attention wasn’t focused on being extremely bloody aroused. Which it is. Which he is. Which… oh, bloody hell.

He recoils reluctantly, allowing Sherlock the room to start removing his clothing. John deduces that he should probably start doing the same thing and copies the man’s actions; the movements are hurried, frustrated, and far from sensual.

Not that either of them mind, though. They know what this is about and it certainly isn’t about foreplay.

Unclothed and exposed, the two men fall together again. There’s a distinct but welcome lack of talking. Somehow John finds himself pressed against the mattress by the force of two strong palms on his chest and the cushioning of lips against his, then hands slide and grip and grasp and eyelids drop in rapture. They press up against each other, exhaling into each other’s mouths like they’re trying to exorcise themselves.

The skull on the carpet watches with vacant eyes as the men on the bed metamorphosise into one – gasping, groaning, blaspheming – and says nothing.

-

John wakes up, covered in sweat and come, feeling disgusting. It’s still dark; normally he wakes to find the curtains rimmed with gold. Normally he wakes up with clothes on. He exhales but there’s a noticeable absence of breath, not just from him but from the man he expects to see as he rolls over onto his side and swings his arm out over nothingness.

Sherlock isn’t there. John has never truly hated himself more for thinking that he would be. He was never destined to be different, to change the obvious lifelong habits of a man who seemed more stubborn than the ox; John’s stupid for even entertaining the thought that there’d be anything post-coital. He did something out of the ordinary; Sherlock lived up to expectations, then he left. John didn’t hear him go but he supposes that’s the danger of indulging in recreational drugs: it spares you the pain momentarily but never eradicates it. Now his head fucking hurts and he’s not sure where the discomfort is stemming from. That’s the worst part. He should have told Sherlock not to bother. He should have warned him that he’s not been loved then left before.

The fingers on the end of the outstretched arm clench into a fist, grasping at the sheet the way he’d done the night before, in ecstasy, in bliss. John knows he’s being pathetic but he can’t… he’s reminded of a particularly clear thought that must have crossed his mind sometime last night: _Once you’ve tasted the best, the rest won’t cut it, mmmm?_

That sounds about right.

With another breathless exhale, John decides he needs to get a grip and get himself into a shower. Because, frankly, he stinks. And perhaps there won’t ever be another Sherlock Holmes but that’s okay, John is remarkably good at playing asexual. It was just one night, one blip, a few hours of rainfall mid-drought. He can sail above the crowds and laugh at the inexhaustibility of the male libido while he leans back, fingers linked behind his head, waiting for a Holmes. This prospect suits him better than the ‘lie in bed smelling his scent on the duvet, weeping’ plan he’d originally formulated.

He may still do that, actually, but post-shower, and hopefully without the weeping.

After a quick survey through his door hinges, the coast seems clear and John legs it across the hallway, still starkers, into the safety of the bathroom. The scalding water calms the throbbing in his head and warms the icy cavern of his chest; soap takes care of the smell that seems to have gotten everywhere although John doesn’t know how. He knows he’s washing _him_ off but somehow that’s not so bad. He’s not pathetic enough to choose fragments of memories over fragrance, not just yet. The water starts to run cold so John hops out, towels himself off, slips himself into a pair of clean jeans and his old rugby shirt from back when he used to play for the college team. He’s proud of the ‘Watson’ on the back and he needs that right now.

Next stop is breakfast. The clock on the microwave reads ‘6:04’ when he breezes into the kitchen, newly invigorated by the shower and the prospect of moving on; at least now he has an explanation for the absence of light permeating through the flimsy curtains. He flicks the light on and sets about preparing himself a bowl of Weetabix when he notices his phone lying on the kitchen table. That’s odd; John could have sworn he had it in the pocket of his trousers when he kicked them off last night. He reaches for it and thumbs the unlock buttons to find one missed call, a voicemail, and five texts waiting for him. He’s popular this morning.

John decides to tackle the voicemail first. He’s rarely called, his friends don’t go for that, so it’s unlikely to be a 3am drunk-dialling. It’s most probably important, considering the hour. The button depresses and the phone starts to ring.

“Hey, John? It’s Phil. I’m seriously- I’m fucking… I’m at the police station. I’m in so much shit, man, I should have told you but my brother… he… they’re telling me to wrap this up so I can’t explain but they’re going to charge me, they’ve found out… please come and visit me, man, I need to see you. This is probably so confusing but would you please come in? I don’t know what I’m going to d-”

 _Well. He wasn’t lying, then._

John has no inclinations whatsoever to respond to his housemate’s plea, so moves his attention to the texts. Selecting the option reveals the unread messages are from… himself? All of them? That’s ridiculous; he doesn’t remember sending any texts, let alone to himself, what a pointless exercise that would be. He starts on the earliest and reads them in turn, the corners of his mouth turning upwards with each message he clicks on to.

 _I hope you realise the true enormity of this gesture, for I rarely leave notes. At all. But I wanted you to know that last night was… illuminating, and very enjoyable. So thank you. I think, to run the risk of sounding horrifically sentimental, you are a better person than you believe yourself to be. I look forward to_

 _Meeting you again after the war, for it is more an inevitability than a chance happening. That being said, for now, it is paramount that you forget me. You must delete these texts; I’ll remind you that I will know if you haven’t, and I shan’t be pleased to discover you disobeyed such a simple order. It may seem_

 _Incomprehensible now but I promise you… I shall not degrade my reasoning by trying to explain it via text. Goodbye, John._

 _P.S. Zyxwvutsrqponmlkjihgfedcba. I can even type it out._

 _P.P.S. Yes, I have used up 70p of your credit sending these texts to yourself._

They’re from Sherlock. John’s stood in his kitchen, beaming at his mobile phone, dangerously close to having moisture appear in his eyes but he’s not going to cry, he’s not. They’re just texts, and he’s just Sherlock Holmes and he’s _said goodbye_. This is the closure that John needs but then the thought comes to him: he doesn’t _want_ it. Forget Sherlock? Why? Of course he’s not going to forget him; that’s ridiculous and unattainable and he doesn’t want to! John Watson doesn’t think he could ever forget a man so beautiful, so brilliant, so astounding in every possible aspect. A man so memorable can never be forgotten.

Or at least he thinks.

John Watson isn’t betting on the war changing him. He leaves England as an army doctor with hopes and anxieties and comes back another man. His past has been obliterated much like the vehicles he’s seen traverse unknowingly over roadside bombs; his life has begun again at the age of twenty-eight and he knows nothing of the carefree nature of his university days. He has done the impossible: he has forgotten Sherlock Holmes.

So when Mike stops his limping in the park to talk of flat shares and their mutual training at Bart’s, John nods and agrees and makes small talk but remembers nothing. When he’s led back to the place where he spent the years that made him, he makes a show of murmurs and back channel noises until both of them almost believe that returning to this alien landscape of disinfected surfaces and corridors and microscopes is like coming home. When he sees the man examining specimens through lenses in the laboratory, John sees a remarkable, beautiful stranger.

Sherlock Holmes accepts the offer of the phone and pretends that he hasn’t had Doctor John Watson on surveillance ever since he left Cromwell Mews in the early hours of a crisp winter’s morning.

\--


End file.
